


Curse-Bringer (or A Tale of Two Idiots)

by TalesOfErynGalen



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Also Mage Bella, Bella Swan with a Backbone, Dawnguard DLC (Elder Scrolls), Disaster Bella too, Disaster Dovahkiin, Human Bella Swan, Kinda Scared to Put This Out There Not Gonna Lie, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Addiction, Sorry Not Sorry, Two Human Disasters Becoming Supernatural Disasters, Vampire Bella Swan, What Have I Done, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfErynGalen/pseuds/TalesOfErynGalen
Summary: Fjora of Jorrvaskr just signed up for an easy job. Punch some milk-drinker in Morthal, come home, get paid, and maybe get drunk, if she was lucky. Unfortunately, as usually happens in Morthal, strange things are afoot. Not only does the Jarl know entirely too much of Fjora's past - secrets she'd thought long left behind - but a strange young woman is found in the swamps, and has absolutely no clue where she is, or how she got there.Bella Swan just wanted to go visit Jake for a little while. Unfortunately for her, he's not in, and a walk in the woods leads to forces unknown dragging her into the marshes of Hjaalmarch. She sets out to find a way back to her home and family, with the reluctant aid of one Fjora Curse-Bringer. Unfortunately for them both, it's hard to stay focused in Skyrim, and they'll see every inch of the province - from the peak of the Throat of the World to the depths of Blackreach - before they reach their goal.
Kudos: 1





	Curse-Bringer (or A Tale of Two Idiots)

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy. Here it is. The result of way too many idle daydreams at work. Hope y'all enjoy it, this is 100% self-indulgent but I tried to make it reasonably paced and entertaining for others, too. I'm also genuinely attempting to give a lot of the Twilight crew the characterization they deserve, and some growth too. No bashing here unless they *really* deserve it.
> 
> I wanna see Serana and Rosalie beat the shit out of Molag Bal, dammit.
> 
> Also, technically fade-to-black non-con in this chapter? If you're uncomfortable with a character being manipulated while under the influence, it starts when Alva shows up and continues to the linebreak.

Fjora had expected a lot from joining the Companions. Honor, glory, something along those lines...and booze. Yeah, that was always a good thing. Even if Skyrim was _unbelievably_ liberal when it came to ale, mead, and to a lesser extent, wine, the endless supply the Companions seemed to keep flowing was an alcoholic’s paradise. Not that she was even allowed to get drunk off her ass once she joined. Aela had seemingly taken up the mantle of her mentor, and part of her mentorship - apparently - included having every mug of mead past the first slapped out of her hands.

 _A warrior needs her wits about her,_ the formidable woman had lectured her each time, _especially when she’s thrust into an environment unfamiliar to her. Eyes on the hunt, whelp._

Even if her attempts to drown her past had been cut off cruelly, Fjora had to admit finally having a purpose, a family of sorts, was a comfort she hadn’t known she needed. As brutal as her new life was, as gory as her work became, she could press on. She knew she always had a brother or sister to fall back on if things got rough. She knew, even clearer, that each day she strapped on her sword belt was another day she would actively help others - maybe even save lives. A small penance to pay, for what she’d done.

However, as Fjora got herself situated in Jorrvaskr, she had to admit that some jobs were far from glorious, or even helpful. Some were just flat out annoying, as much as she chastised herself for thinking harshly of her clients.

 _Find my lost necklace_ this, _take care of my rabid hunting dog_ that, with a healthy helping of _beat up a civilian for me_ piled on the side. The petty work that someone was too lazy - or cowardly - to do themselves. She didn’t enjoy scraping the skin off her knuckles to save someone else from getting dirt on their hands. It rubbed her the complete wrong way, which was why she was already in a piss-poor mood when she dragged into the Moorside Inn.

“Come o-” the innkeep started to call out, before catching sight of Fjora’s thunderous expression. She stepped back from the bar a bit, reaching subtly for the knife on her belt. “You’re not plannin’ any trouble, are you, friend?”

Fjora grimaced in the woman’s direction, scanning the inn. Water dripped down her face and blurred her vision, making her already foul mood even worse. “I’m not the one who did the planning. I’m with the Companions. Seems someone’s got a grudge against some fella named Hroggar?”

“I knew that bastard would drag in more trouble sooner or later.” Just like that, the innkeep relaxed, even offering Fjora a grim smile. “The kin-slayer’s staying with his new lover, Alva, along the waterfront. Do whatever you want to him. Makes no difference to me, so long as you don’t bring it in here.”

Fjora frowned back at her. “Apparently I wasn’t fully informed here. Is Alva gonna be a threat?” When the innkeep shook her head in the negative, Fjora shrugged. “I’ve got no fight with her so long as she stays out of the way. I’ll try not to leave your town two graves richer.”

Fjora turned on her heel to stride right back out the door. The innkeep might have muttered something along the lines of, _might as well kill them for all the grief they’ve caused_ , but that wasn’t any of her business. She hadn’t been told about this kin-slaying business, or the woman now living with Hroggar, but at the end of the day her job was clear-cut. Beat some sense (or some defeat) into the man, go back to Jorrvaskr, and claim her payment. Maybe now that she was making a name for herself, Aela would ease up and let her drink herself into a buzz, if not a stupor.

A passing guard stumbled a bit when he neared her, and she could see in his stance that he was suspicious. She didn’t blame him. She’d ridden a day and a half through fog, snow, and rain without sleep, without even removing her armor. She looked a bedraggled mess, and suspected she stank like some foul hybrid of a draugr den and a diseased skeever.

“Here on business from the Companions. Where’s Hroggar?” She really hoped he was out fishing or otherwise out of his house. She didn’t want to get Alva involved in this, or beat the man senseless in his own home.

The guard pointed towards one of the houses that sat in a cluster, right against the lake that marked the edge of the swamp. “That one there, on the far left. Or he goes to work early in the morning, down at the mill.”

That easy. Something in Fjora hated how easily the town would sell out Hroggar - everything else she had was looking forward to this pitiful job just a bit more. Clearly he’d done something awful. Hell, maybe she’d stick around for a bit, see if she could pick up some freelance work and try to suss out the whole story.

When all was said and done, Hroggar the Kin-Slayer was far less formidable than even the bard in Whiterun. She’d waited for him in the shadow of the millhouse, his earlier coworkers giving her suspicious, knowing looks the whole while. When he finally made his appearance, hazy-eyed and sluggish, Fjora had announced her presence with a snap of her fingers. His attention had snapped to her in the split second before her fist met his brow, and just like that he went down. He didn’t make a move to defend himself, even as he laid sprawled in the mud with Fjora standing menacingly above him. He simply glared at her, wordlessly.

“You know what you have to do. I suggest you get to it,” Fjora had growled, keeping her stance wide and her fists balled up. Most Nords would have lunged right back into the fight, rankling at their easy loss. So, when Hroggar had simply gotten up and went to work, it had planted a small seed of unease in Fjora’s gut.

Now, seated outside the Jarl’s longhouse, that seed had grown into a cold, twisting vine that seemed to keep her in a stranglehold of paranoia. She couldn’t stop looking around, eyes lowered and hood raised, one hand laying casually tense on the hilt of her sword and the other balled into a tight fist in her lap. Her leg bounced of its own accord, jingling the chainmail she wore under her leather jerkin. Both the sound and the movement grated on her nerves, but she was powerless to stop the bouncing. Even as she attempted to lose herself in her thoughts, her mind repeatedly strayed to the constant up-down-up-down of her knee and the tapping of her boot heel. Her anxiety was growing almost too powerful when a voice inside the longhouse finally, _finally_ beckoned her in.

Fjora did her best to sluice some of the rain off of her armor before she went in. It seemed the rain never let up here in Morthal, with only the briefest reprieve earlier that day in the form of a heavy mist. Jarl Idgrod was likely used to having dripping wet, unkempt petitioners coming into her throne room, but even so Fjora was technically representing the Companions. She’d need to uphold their image if they wanted to keep taking jobs in Hjaalmarch.

“Ah, so you’re here at last,” a small, but carrying voice spoke from the head of the long hall. Idgrod was lounging in her throne with all the ease that only age, experience, and confidence could bring. Fjora was desperately hoping for more of the experience than anything else, but the Jarl was clearly aging. It showed in the sea of wrinkles her face had loosened into, the graying of her raven hair, and the frailty obvious in her limbs. Fjora was certain she’d never met any human this old - aside from draugr, if they even counted as human anymore.

Try as she might, Fjora couldn’t keep the snark from her voice. “I’ve actually been here quite a while, my Jarl. Just waiting outside for your summons.”

Idgrod laughed, a grating sound that vaguely reminded Fjora of some long-lost grandmother, although it was overshadowed by the gloom of the hall and what she had come to discuss. ‘Yes. My apologies for that - my steward didn’t see fit to tell me of your presence until after I’d finished my dinner. But, I’m afraid I meant your arrival in Morthal overall, Fjora Curse-Bringer. I’ve Seen it.”

A tremble passed down Fjora’s spine. Her anxiety, which had eased upon entering the hall, came back in full force. Of course, Hjaalmarch’s Jarl claimed to have visions - that much she’d known, just like what seemed to be the majority of Skyrim. What she hadn’t expected was to hear her name spoken with such certainty - even the cursed honor-name she’d long left behind her. “How do you know that name?”

“I know many things about you, Curse-Bringer, most of which are not suited for polite conversation.” There was a knowing glint in her cloudy gray eyes that set Fjora even further on edge. _No. She can’t possibly…_ “As such, I’ll spare you from the details. But shall we get to the matter at hand? If my Sight is to be relied upon, you are here for information pertaining to Hroggar and his family, gods rest their souls.”

Fjora nodded slowly, trying to set her worsening panic aside. “Aye. I’ve spoken to what seems like half the town, and been shown the ruins of their home. Everyone has been heavily biased, for some reason or another. I was hoping the city’s Jarl would be able to paint a clearer picture for me.”

Idgrod considered her for a moment. Fjora realized she was holding her breath a moment later, and forced herself to breathe in, then out, and over again. The Jarl was observing her closely - in much the same way Kodlak had looked her over when she strode into his study and asked to join the Companions. The only difference was that then, Kodlak had been looking for signs she was a capable warrior. She had no idea what Idgrod's motivations were. After far too long, the woman shrugged.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help to you, Companion. My knowledge, on this matter at least, is as limited as everyone else’s. Hroggar was the sole survivor of a house fire that killed his wife and daughter, and soon after he moved in with Alva. He claims the fire started when his wife spilled bear fat while cooking. Others believe that Hroggar set the fire himself, with the intention of killing his family.” Idgrod slowly sat up straighter, keeping steady, unblinking eye contact with Fjora. “I am in no position to endorse one claim over the other. However, if you plan to stay in Morthal for a time, I am willing to pay a handsome reward to whoever may uncover the truth of the matter. So it may finally be put to rest, and my people can resume their lives in peace.”

Fjora held herself as straight and proud as possible, in an attempt to save face while her mind turned over in time with her stomach. For five years, she’d successfully lived separate from that... _other_ her. She’d cut off what remained of the woman called Curse-Bringer and left her to rot in the wilds. To be so suddenly confronted with her past, by someone with the authority and standing to ruin her all over again...shit.

Some of her uncertainty must have shown on her face - and affected her despite her best efforts, for in the next moment Idgrod had risen from her throne. The ancient Jarl stepped down from her slight dais with an ease and ability Fjora had not expected with her age, and came close to her. Close enough Fjora could smell the stew she’d had for dinner. Broth and potatoes - no better than what the rest of her Hold ate right now. Something about that fact soothed Fjora’s frayed nerves enough that she didn’t even flinch when Idgrod gathered Fjora's gauntleted hands in hers, the skin of her wrinkled thumb rasping over the leather.

"You are in no danger from me, child. Your past will not be held against you, and it is your choice whether or not to trust me. However, you may find that trust is hard to come by in this town, and having just a little of it, in anyone, could save you."

 _Well, that was worryingly cryptic._ Fjora shook herself firmly. Fear could wait - maybe it could wait long enough to fade into the background and become white noise, like it had been not ten minutes prior. She offered the Jarl a smirk that faltered somewhat more than she’d prefer. “Yeah. I’ll get to the bottom of it, but I’ll need to let my shield siblings know I’ll be behind schedule getting back.”

Her own feelings aside, Fjora knew this would be _extremely_ good for the Companions if Jarl Idgrod was happy with her work. This wasn’t the basic grunt work that formed the majority of their contracts - this was an official investigation, entrusted to a warrior of Jorrvaskr when the town guard reached the end of its rope. Although fear of the aging Jarl, of how she could tear Fjora’s life apart with her knowledge, still laid heavy on her gut, she drew herself straighter.

“Consider it done. I’ll have a messenger sent immediately. I look forward to hearing from you again, Companion.” Idgrod settled back onto her throne and, with a slight incline of her head, dismissed Fjora.

That night, as she handed over a small sack of gold as payment for her room - however long she may need it - at the inn, she felt far more eyes than usual on her back. She couldn’t help but stiffen slightly, and glanced over her shoulder as the innkeep counted her gold. At least three of the inn’s patrons hurriedly looked back down at their meals, just a little too quickly to be casual. Fjora’s lips twisted into a scowl as one of them was brave enough to hold her gaze. The boy’s skin quickly lost its color and he averted his eyes, keeping them trained a little too intently on his ale until Fjora turned back around.

The staring resumed.

It was with a somewhat forced smile that she took her own meal from the innkeep and went to sit at one of the tables along the wall. Her plate thunked loudly as she set it down, perhaps a bit more roughly than the battered thing deserved. A couple of leeks scattered onto the table, although they were swiftly piled back onto the plate. Fjora could almost forget the multitude of eyes on her as she settled down with her food. Two large chunks of seared salmon, leeks with bits of mushrooms among them, a thick slice of buttered toast and - ale. Full meals were rare when she was on the road, which had already set her stomach to rumbling when she realized she had the time and coin for a full plate. However, ale had become even more of a rarity, and she firmly refused to acknowledge how her hands shook as she unstopped the first of the four bottles she’d bought. It didn’t help that her conversation with Idgrod was still on her mind.

Her first gulp didn’t change much, except for sending a familiar burn down her throat. Neither did the second, or third. She felt slightly better by the time the bottle was empty, but not by much. She reached for the next one and yanked out the cork, with much less shaking this time.

Dimly, she knew that drinking without anything in her stomach would be...bad. Before she joined the Companions, she’d had quite the resistance built up. It was enough to drink any self-respecting Nord man under the table, and had been the crowning achievement of her life for so long, especially since she’d been the lightest of lightweights beforehand. Now, though - now it had been months since she got more than a sip of anything alcoholic. So, between her increasingly less desperate drags from the second bottle, she picked at her meal.

It really was good. The fish and bread were fresh, even if the leeks weren’t. It was amazing she’d been charged so little for it.

 _Such a shame Aela isn’t here to make me appreciate it more,_ Fjora thought to herself, wolfing down one of the chunks of salmon before returning her attention to her ale. _Damn stick in the mud woman._

Without the ferocity she’d finished off her first drink with, the other three took much longer for her to get through. By the end of the second, her head was swimming slightly. She resolutely tore a large bite off of her cooling toast before grabbing the third bottle. “Three time’s the charm, huh?” She muttered to herself.

“I think you need a few more than three, myself,” a smooth, unfairly sweet voice murmured from next to her. Fjora stiffened and jerked her head around to the seat beside her. When she’d sat down, and for her entire meal so far, it had remained empty, and she’d been fine with that. Now, however...it seemed to have been occupied by the most stunning beauty she’d ever seen.

“How the hell did you get there?” Fjora asked, dumfounded. She hadn’t seen or heard this newcomer sidling up beside her, and that was rare. Really rare. As in, hadn’t happened since before she became a Companion rare. “You some kind of sneak?”

The woman sitting beside her huffed out a small laugh, batting her eyes. In the soft golden glow from the fire, she looked _unfairly_ gorgeous and the look on her face almost had Fjora squirming in her seat. Black hair tumbled over one of her shoulders, only serving to accent her pale skin and big doe eyes that peered up at her with something so far from innocence that Fjora hastily diverted her attention to her drink. The cork came out, and she must’ve drank half the bottle before it left her lips again. A pleasant haze settled over her mind, giving her the courage to look back at her tablemate.

She’d leaned forward onto the table now, keeping herself easily within Fjora’s view. She was smiling softly, and her eyes - they must’ve been brown, but the fire cast them in mesmerizing shades of burnt orange - slowly raked over Fjora’s form. Fjora gulped, her mouth suddenly dry despite her drink. Perhaps because of her drink. Or the fact that the yet unnamed woman beside her was slowly inching closer.

“Like I said, you need far more ale than you’ve got in front of you. You’re all wound up, you poor thing. Not to mention, the look you had when you took your first drink was...hungry.” Fjora promptly forgot about the drink in her hand at the other woman’s tone. It fell from her grip, and she barely managed to grab it up before too much of it spilled onto the table.

She could feel heat in her cheeks that wasn’t entirely from her drinks. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your name-?”

The woman laughed again, the sound low and sultry. Fjora vaguely recognized that she was breathing a bit more heavily than usual, but gods help her - was someone actually coming onto her? Besides the usual drunken Nord men who were already a sip away from passing out in their seat?

Panic welled up within her for a moment, then oddly ebbed away when the woman caught her eyes again. There was something so sweet about her face, her voice, and every line of her trim body. Something so comforting that she couldn’t...quite...remember what was going on…

The ever-present stiffness in her shoulders melted away and she slowly took another sip of her drink, never breaking eye contact with the woman.

“You can call me Alva. And you…” She leaned fully against Fjora’s side, stretching up slightly to whisper in her ear, “have had my _full_ attention since you walked in...Fjora, was it?”

“O-Oh.” Something was needling at Fjora, something big, something urgent, and for a moment she felt distinctly uncomfortable and tried to look back at her plate. A thin, cold hand caught her jaw just as her head moved, and gently guided her to look into Alva’s eyes again.

The fire was dimming, but her eyes were still such a gorgeous color. Orange and gold and focused and on _her_ and -

The tension melted out of her once again, and she let out a soft breath, completely mesmerized. Alva. Such a beautiful name. She didn’t think she’d ever heard anything like it before.

Alva’s soft smile turned into a grin as she slowly detached herself from Fjora’s side and rose from the table. Fjora’s eyes snapped to the admittedly _revealing_ dress she wore, and the way the whole of one leg was visible through a split in the side of the skirt. Alva’s body was just as appealing as her face. The thought turned Fjora’s face an even darker red than it must have already been, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. Even with her half-finished ale still sitting on the table, and a quarter of her dinner still on the plate.

Most of the patrons had retired by then, and those that remained were far too deep in their cups to care about what was going on around them. All the better. It just meant Fjora had no one else to distract her, or stare at her and her sudden inability to breathe, as Alva sauntered around behind her. Her fingers dragged along the nape of Fjora’s neck, just above the line of her armor, before stopping on her other side. Much closer to the door of Fjora’s room than she’d been previously.

“I’ll go ahead and leave you to your ale,” She murmured, softly although Fjora felt as though every word were amplified a hundred fold in her ears. “I can see you need it, so I won’t interject myself into your drinking any longer.” Something in Fjora wilted, positively crashed to the dusty floor of the inn at those words. She’d thought...what _had_ she thought? That beautiful, alluring, unblemished Alva would be interested in _her,_ with her battle scars, unkempt hair, and the smell of the road still on her skin?

“Unless,” and suddenly Alva had bent over, to speak directly into her ear again. Fjora shuddered at the tone of her voice. “You’d want me to get you more?”

She slowly turned her face up, barely startled to find her lips little more than a hairsbreadth from Alva’s. Those bewitching eyes were _right there_ , and her staggered breathing evened out as she stared into them. Something small and indignant in the back of her mind was beating against her sluggish thoughts, screaming _no, wrong, don’t!_ The voice sounded oddly like Aela, and Fjora was almost inclined to listen to her mentor. Almost. The false innocence on Alva’s face was more than enough for her to push that little voice away.

“Aye,” she finally whispered, “I’d like more.”

The grin on Alva’s face turned from playful to something dangerous, something _darker._ Fjora almost wanted to call it malicious, but then a thin hand was wrapped around each of her forearms, gently but firmly guiding her up. Alva was looking at her like a man might look upon an oasis in the desert - not unlike how Fjora supposed she’d looked drinking her first ale in months. Absolutely ravenous. Her stomach twisted, though it was far from an unpleasant feeling.

On her feet, she was a good head taller than Alva, who easily slunk under one of Fjora’s arms, encouraging her to hold her around her waist. Fjora did so gladly, only slightly marveling at the cold of Alva’s skin through the bodice of her dress. She wasn’t a Nord, by her height, and Skyrim _was_ a cold place.

“Well, then let’s go get you more,” Alva murmured, laying her head against Fjora’s leather jerkin and gazing up at her with a positively _devilish_ expression. “I know where to get something so much... _better_ than the swill they serve here.”

Fjora knew that by the time they’d walked out of the inn, still entwined, she’d been grinning like a loon, and only too happy to follow Alva wherever she led.

* * *

Fjora woke up to the feeling of cold wind over her body, something that set her brow to furrowing before she’d even opened her eyes.

Granted, it hadn’t been the first time she’d woken to something similar. Her fires would often go out overnight when she was forced to camp in the northern Holds, and her nightclothes and thin bedroll were no protection against the fierce northern snows. The same went for many of the smaller inns she’d stayed at, whose walls were too thin and full of cracks to keep out the weather. Something about this particular awakening, however, rubbed her the wrong way.

Her thoughts moved like half-frozen molasses as she tried to pin down the reason for the niggling sense of _wrong_ that had her tensing up all over. Trying to form a coherent thought was worse than sifting through dark, freezing water for beads from a broken necklace. Possibly worse than then searching through the viscous mud at the bottom of the lake, and she would be a _very_ good judge of that, considering the last job she went out on.

Her confused state wasn’t helped in the slightest by her raging headache and the pain she could now feel all over her body as she began to stir. She grimaced and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position.

And promptly froze, her eyes opening halfway with a look of irritated confusion.

_Why the hell am I naked?_

And wasn’t that the question of the day? Even in the safety of Jorrvaskr, she’d gotten used to sleeping in a loose tunic and trousers, since she shared her living space with four other people. On the road, it had been drilled into her to always sleep not only clothed, but armored if she could help it, with her sword nearby. Obviously, right now she was neither.

Furthermore, as she forced her eyes to open all the way, she wasn’t in the inn at Morthal, or even in her bedroll. She was in the _swamp_ . She was in the swamp and, now that she looked down at herself, certainly _looked_ like she’d spent the better part of the night _naked_ and in the _swamp_. Dark, mostly dried mud caked her skin like she’d been rolling around in it, and she could feel it hanging heavily in her hair. A few scrapes dotted her arms and legs, and a sharp stinging on her collarbone drew her hand up to rub at it. She almost immediately yanked her hand away in shock.

Was there...Arkay’s blessed ankles, was there a _bite_ _mark_ on her collarbone?!

She felt it again, lightly probing around the swollen edges of the wound. It was more on the meat of her shoulder, where it connected to her neck but it was unmistakable. Two crescent-shaped wounds were dug deep into her muscle, twinging horribly with every feather light brush of her fingers. She’d been bitten, and rather viciously. Bitten by a _human_ from the shape of the injury.

Her confusion heightened until she suddenly remembered the previous evening. _Alva_ . Right. She gave a stunned little smile, suddenly a lot less worried than she’d been about her situation. The smile turned into a smirk. Well, _apparently_ she’d had fun last night. Now, to find her clothes and her armor, clean it as best she could, and get to work before the whole town was awake to witness her walk of shame back across the bridge.

Finding Alva and helping her get ready would probably be the honorable thing to do, too, now that she remembered she hadn’t been alone. It wasn’t exactly _nice_ to leave someone defenseless and asleep in the wilds after a one night stand, even if the thought of talking to her again tied Fjora’s stomach into decidedly less pleasant knots than the night before.

However, when she stood up and cast a look around, she couldn’t see Alva anywhere, passed out or awake, clothed or... _not_. The marshes were almost a monotonous landscape of dull grays and browns, without so much as a streak of alabaster skin or the bright green cloth of Alva’s dress from the night before. In fact, if she had to guess, there were so few signs of any kind of human disturbance that she doubted she was anywhere near Morthal at all.

She searched for a while longer, for both Alva and her armor, but to no avail. After almost a half-hour of picking her way through the tall, brittle grasses, combing the shallow waters and peering through the branches of shrubbery, she shrugged to herself. Alva must’ve just woken up before her and started her walk back towards the city. Granted, it was _extremely_ rude to just leave Fjora out there alone, but Alva was no warrior, and might’ve assumed Fjora could defend herself if anything set upon her.

The lack of any of her armor or weapons was much more upsetting. Her armor she could replace easily enough, as it was cheap and salvaged off of a bandit to begin with. Her sword and both of her daggers, however - those were Skyforge steel, gifted to her by Eorlund when she passed her Proving three months ago. If she couldn’t find them she’d not only have to buy new ones - and Skyforge steel was _expensive_ \- but she’d have to explain to Eorlund, and likely the rest of the Companions, exactly how and why she’d lost her brand new weapons. Oh, she’d never hear the end of it.

She wasn’t about to just walk back into Morthal as bare as the day she was born, either. She needed some kind of covering that didn’t blatantly scream, _I had sex in a swamp and lost all my clothes_. With an irritated huff, she widened her search, and resigned herself to possibly having to spend the day seeking out a bandit to appropriate their clothes.

The sun was high in the sky and Fjora was feeling truly sick from the stench of the marsh water when she caught a familiar flash of red fabric caught on a tree branch. Without hesitation, she dropped into the small creek separating her from it, wading through the freezing, waist-deep water with a single-minded determination. Finally, she snagged _her shirt_ , the one she wore under her jerkin, off of the branch she’d apparently hung it on the night before. A relieved laugh bubbled up from her gut as she turned the shirt over and inside out, looking for any rips or unfixable stains. Absolutely nothing was any different from when she’d put it on the day before.

With a broad smile, she hung it back up and stepped into the creek. She splashed herself with cold water until the mud covering her body was running off in thick rivulets. She scrubbed as best she could at the stubborn stains left behind, blotching her scarred skin, and then dunked her head under the water, working furiously at the rats’ nest she dared to call hair. When she emerged, the water still dripping down her body was definitely brown and stunk worse than a draugr crypt, but at least she didn’t look like she’d been rolling around naked in the swamp. Which she absolutely had been.

And wasn’t that a thought that still stunned her, even after mulling over it all day. She’d _actually_ gone and slept with a complete stranger, and from the looks of it had had one hell of a night as a result. It wasn’t like she’d never had a one night stand before, but until now it had always been with someone she knew and trusted. It rankled at her for just a minute that she'd done this - that she'd possibly risked much more than a nasty infection without a second thought. An uncomfortable sensation, almost like an itch, started at the back of her skull, urging her that _something here is wrong_.

Fjora stilled for a moment while pulling her shirt on, before again shrugging off her confusion. It was just a one time thing. Like when she’d stayed out in the training yard too late, looked over at the only other trainee out with her, and her tired brain decided _Torvar_ was the most irresistible thing she’d ever seen.

She cringed at the memory of waking up half-clothed in her shield-brother’s arms, still in the training yard with Vilkas looming over them, both disapproving and disturbed, while Skjor laughed somewhere out of her field of vision. She hadn’t been able to meet anyone’s eyes at the hall for weeks, and had ended up taking a long job in the Rift to get away.

At least she wouldn’t be in Morthal for much longer, and she might not even have to see Alva again. She certainly hadn’t noticed her out and about during the roughly day and a half she’d been in Morthal before now. Had she? Every time she tried to remember, to recall whether she’d seen the beauty walking Morthal’s muddy streets, or heard her enchanting voice or even her name on someone else’s lips, her mind drew a blank. 

It was odd for her to be unable to remember something so simple, but, as she reminded herself, she’d been rather wrapped up in her own anxiety, and not exactly on the lookout for attractive raven-haired women. Plus, she’d been drinking again, heavily enough that she couldn’t remember a thing past leaving the Moorside Inn last night. It shouldn’t have surprised her that she was missing details from the day before. Shouldn’t have nagged at her, hovering just behind her thoughts like a shadowmark hidden on the side of a doorframe.

But it did.

A quick glance around the same area she’d found her shirt revealed she’d fully disrobed beside the creek. Her jerkin and chainmail were laid sloppily over a stone, with her boots and bracers on the ground beside it. Her trousers were found halfway into the water, which made her wrinkle her nose. Her underthings...were a lost cause. Her breastband had been cut apart down the front, rather than untied, when she found it in the grass. She didn’t even attempt to find her underwear after seeing that. She doubted they’d fared much better.

Around the same rock she’d left her jerkin on she also found the rest of her gear. The bandolier she normally wore across her chest was discarded carelessly, one of the pockets slightly open and spilling out scraps of paper - notes she kept about her jobs and various events. She frowned at the sight of the muddy paper. As stupid as it was, she’d had an attachment to those little memos that Aela made her write, to keep track of her work. She’d even added a note about her new job for Jarl Idgrod as soon as she’d been hired yesterday. A pity that she’d lost what looked like most of them. She’d probably have to rewrite them. Start a journal or something, maybe.

Her sword was driven into the frozen mud a few yards away, with her twin daggers hanging from their belt, strung across the sword’s crossbars. She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight, and began dressing herself. Thankfully, none of her gear was in any worse shape than it had already been in. Granted, her jerkin at least had already been in horrible condition, the leather so badly beaten that it offered little more protection than a thin tunic, and was ripped in various places. She really needed to replace it the next time she passed a decent blacksmith - especially considering that one of the straps holding the front of the jerkin closed was hanging on by a worryingly fragile thread of material.

Now fully armed and armored once again, Fjora hopped up on a rock to survey her surroundings. Nothing but dull marsh grass, murky water, and straggling trees surrounded her as far as she could see. Far off in the distance, a little too indistinct for her to be sure, she could’ve sworn she saw a plume of smoke rising into the sky. There was no other indicator of any kind of settlement. She scowled to herself. Naturally, she’d just _have_ to start off her most prestigious job yet by getting lost in the swamp.

She hopped back down to the ground, grunting as the impact jostled her sore muscles and the still-stinging bite on her shoulder. With her luck, it was infected. She’d have to get to a temple as soon as possible. Her last healing potion had been used up shortly after she left Rorikstead on her way to Morthal.

With no other course of action available, she began walking towards the distant plume of smoke. As the midday wore on into afternoon, it became clearer and clearer. The sun had started to dip below the horizon when finally, _finally,_ she heard the distinct cracking and grinding of a lumber mill, and the crash of split logs being dropped into a pile. She looked to the darkening sky and muttered a quick prayer of thanks to whatever god had been watching over her before forcing her aching legs into a clipped jog.

Her shoulder ached with every step, and when she finally stepped out of the trees surrounding the mill, the workers startled at seeing her. If it were possible, they seemed even more closed off than they’d been the day before. She watched them for a moment, brows furrowed, before dismissing their behavior. She could dwell on it later, after she had _some_ semblance of where to start with her investigation.

And then she'd see about finding at least a Hall of the Dead, to see if Arkay pitied her enough to heal whatever she'd managed to catch. Fjora couldn't remember seeing a temple the previous day, but every town had a Hall of the Dead, right?

* * *

Bella was hallucinating. She had to be. Because honestly, what other explanation could there be for the fact that Forks' rainy forests had been replaced by an equally rainy marsh right before her eyes?

She'd just been visiting the reservation, and upon not finding Jacob at his house had decided to go walking. It was something to do besides sit in her room and mope, anyway. She'd had no particular destination in mind, just her rain jacket and an unwillingness to have wasted time driving there. Maybe the cliffs, if she made it that far.

Then she just...hadn't been there anymore. The trees that had become semi-familiar to her the past several months were all around her, and in the space of a blink had vanished. The comforting smell of petrichor had given way to an unpleasant, briny smell she had no name for - and that she frankly didn't want to know the source of.

Bella stood still for a moment, staring dumbly at the straggly, low-growing, leafless tree a few feet in front of her. It was an ugly little thing, covered in moss and fungus and looking like it had no right being alive. She waited patiently, if confusedly, half-convinced it would go away in a moment. Just like her _other_ hallucinations. Was her brain drawing parallels between Edward and swamps, now?

The tree remained, the twigs it called branches twitching in the breeze. If anything, her hallucination became more detailed as she stood there. She could hear the damp, brittle wood rasping as it moved, the lapping of the muddy waters against rocks and land, the call of an unfamiliar bird in the distance. She noticed clusters of bright purple flowers growing up the trunk of another nearby tree, and that her feet were submerged in freezing, stinking water.

With much hesitation, she moved. The water around her ankles acted just like - well, water. She watched the expanding ripples as she backed away slowly, onto what felt like relatively dry land. The shock of the cold water, the squish of mud under her hiking boots - was she supposed to be able to feel things so vividly if they weren't actually there?

Bella shook her head firmly. This wasn't real. There was just no explanation for it. Maybe she'd tripped and hit her head on a rock or...something. This all had to be some kind of dream, and she'd wake up at home, at the Blacks', hell, even in the hospital with Charlie hovering over her.

She pinched her arm and twisted, hard. It hurt. It still hurt when she did it again, and she felt her heart begin to speed up. She could taste her own fear, like holding a coin on her tongue.

 _This is real_.

She spun around in a circle, taking in her surroundings. More of the small, spindly trees, accompanied by sharp-looking plants that sprouted blooms she had no name for. There was next to no green for as far as the eye could see, but plenty of water. Little islands of damp earth jutted up randomly from the seeming fields of stagnant, murky water, each one with unhealthy looking vegetation clinging to it. Every now and then, she saw a bird that looked halfway familiar as it lifted off into the air.

 _Why can't you just be normal, Bella?_ She asked herself as she started picking her way towards one of the drier looking islands. She flinched as more frigid water splashed onto her legs, plastering her jeans to her skin. _Every time you turn around there's something supernatural going on. This is_ officially _a pattern_.

Bella scowled as she finally reached a larger tree, boasting a few grayish-brown leaves and a circle of considerably less muddy ground. She plopped herself down at its roots, already reaching for her phone. Vampires, werewolves, and now what? Teleportation? Whatever. She'd call Jacob, work her way through the other members of the pack she knew how to contact, and if all else failed _maybe_ she was relatively close to civilization. Preferably somewhere that spoke English.

When she called Jacob, her phone didn't even ring before announcing that the call couldn't be completed. Bella yanked the phone away from her ear to glare at the signal bars along the top of the screen. No signal. Wasn't that _just_ her luck?

She pursed her lips for a second, looking around her and considering the merits of staying under this tree until someone or some _thing_ found her. It seemed a lot more agreeable than trying to navigate through the swamp to find somewhere with signal, or a landline or something. However, the rapidly-darkening sky put a measure of fear into her, and she hauled herself upright.

"Okay, let's...start walking, I guess," she muttered, brushing some dirt off her jeans.

She couldn't tell how long she walked, except that the overcast sky went from gray to a deeper black than she'd ever seen as she traveled. It was difficult to see her hands when she held them to her face, let alone to see where she was putting her feet. She stumbled and fell several times - mostly just to her knees, but once or twice she got a mouthful of mud, sticks, and the godawful smelling marsh water. Her hands and knees were bleeding, she was sure of it, and likely her chin too with how it was smarting.

She was picking herself up out of a deeper than usual puddle when a voice spoke up, uncomfortably close in the darkness. "Well...you're quite a ways from the town, aren't you? Didn't your parents ever tell you not to wander the marshes past sundown?"

A hand ghosted over her arm, a feather light touch that was alarmingly deliberate for how dark it was. She couldn't even _see_ who was here with her, and the simple fact that _they_ could see _her_ had her tensed in dread.

"Who's there?!" Using her best guess as to where the person was, Bella jumped in what she hoped was the opposite direction, only to slam into someone's chest. She ducked - or rather, tripped - out of their grasp, staring sightlessly into the dark with her hands outstretched and legs braced. She could hear faint footsteps now, barely making a sound as they slowly circled her.

"Oh, but you're such a hapless prize. Hardly worth the effort I spent to follow your...delectable scent."

 _Oh, shit_.

"You're a vampire," she whispered, a numb sort of panic seeping into her veins as she realized exactly how screwed she was. Oh, how very different this was from the first time she'd said those words, when she'd brought herself into the world of the supernatural. "Oh, God."

A chuckle answered her, now somewhere behind her. She whirled to face it and staggered sideways into a tree. "You sound surprised. Did you _really_ ," the vampire circled ever closer to her, "think the warnings about this place were mere stories?"

A hand grasped her arm forcefully, yanking her back against someone's body, and the vampire hissed into her ear. "There's no point in resisting. Your life was forfeit the instant you left your safe little village."

Even knowing she was doomed, Bella still fought back as best she could. She struggled in the vampire's iron grip, writhed to try and shield her neck from the inevitable bite, she thrashed with all her strength - and suddenly, _remarkably_ , she was _free_.

Without pausing to question her good fortune, Bella took off at a dead sprint. Fear the likes of which she hadn't felt in months - maybe worse, because now she was alone - took control of her limbs as she hurtled through the darkness. Her heart threatened to burst out of her very chest, her lungs burned and she just _ran_ . The vampire was behind her, he would be faster than her no matter what, but she could _run_ and maybe get a couple more seconds. Just a couple more.

The more primal part of her railed against the thought of measuring her life in seconds, demanding total escape from her hunter, but she knew there was no hope of that.

She could hear the rustle and splash of a pair of feet pursuing her, but by some miracle they didn't gain on her. Her adrenaline drove her to run ever onward, ever into the impenetrable dark that was now lightening as the clouds began to clear overhead. A small, half-deranged part of her wondered if this was what it would've been like to run as a vampire, easily keeping pace with her siblings and Edward and not being bothered by the unevenness of the ground.

No sooner than she'd thought this, her foot snagged on _something_ and sent her hurtling forward, headfirst, faster than she could comprehend. One moment she was running for her life, and the next she was struggling to breathe, undoubtedly bleeding all over the wide, flat stone she'd bounced off of.

She couldn't quite see. Aside from the lessening dark, everything was fuzzy and indistinct. In the strange, dim blue light that now lay on the forest, however, she could see her hunter - a male vampire dressed in some kind of black robe, with long, dark blond hair gathered into a ponytail. His eyes were very nearly black, and she shuddered to see them. He was maybe ten feet away, and scowling fiercely. Practically snarling.

With all the fight gone out of her from her frenzied escape, Bella let her eyes slide closed and waited for the inevitable. Maybe it would be quick, but maybe it wouldn't. Maybe she'd get to see Edward again one day, if he ever died.

"...damn waste of a meal," the vampire muttered. It sounded like he was...getting farther away? Bella pried her heavy eyelids open, and watched the back of him disappear into the gloom.

She knew it was wrong that he'd just left her alive after _obviously_ hunting her. She knew something else was going on here, but she just...couldn't care about it right now. Not with everything she was begging her to just _lie still, rest_ , and let things resolve themselves without her. She felt...sleepy, suddenly.

With no will to resist, she let herself slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

Life as a quote-unquote "dark" wizard in a town as small as Morthal became ungodly stifling at times. The stares, the whispers, the baseless accusations of wrongdoing and of being a maleficar instead of just a _mage_ had made Falion into a much, much less patient man than he'd been previously.

As a very impatient man, he wanted to set out for his latest experiment, a ritual circle roughly a mile out of town, as early as was safely possible. That meant being on his way just after dawn, and after seeing to it that little Agni had three good, hearty meals made and set out for her for the day. It meant shouldering the door open while the little girl blinked awake and wished him a good morning, saying she was going to clean up her dishes before he came home.

Fallon's dedication to his work had, unfortunately, made his ward grow up much faster than she should've had to. He felt shame over it, whenever he let himself think too much. The girl had suffered the simultaneous loss of both her parents, and then immediately moved in with a wizard who thought of little else beyond his own self and his magic. It had nearly struck him dumb, to come home one day and see that the ten-year-old had washed the multitude of dishes piled up on the kitchen table, and was currently sweeping the floor while stew cooked over the fire.

He'd tried to step up as more of a father figure after that, but still struggled with it. While he _usually_ managed to remember to cook and clean after himself, Agni still had to pick up the slack he left behind. It bothered him more than he'd ever admit, but with his work he couldn't afford to devote any more attention to becoming _family_ to her rather than a detached caretaker.

He really was doing something important, and no amount of guilt, of staring, rumors, or shouting would sway him from completing it. His stride grew longer and more sure the further he went from his house, to the point the guard at the western gate jumped back in surprise when Falion hurried past him. He called something after the wizard. Falion paid him no mind.

The ritual circle wasn't _his_ , to begin with, but it certainly felt like it was now. At first, it had been an ancient, forgotten shrine to Molag Bal - little surprise, as Morthal boasted a startlingly large vampire population outside of its borders. And inside, he thought grimly, recalling how Movarth's newest coven member had lured that Companions mercenary away the previous night. Poor girl. The guards might never find what became of her.

While the shrine had originally been dark in purpose - a remainder of the days when warlords would sacrifice thousands to the daedric prince in exchange for vampirism - he had mostly reclaimed it. It was still very much a work in progress. While he had re-dedicated the ritual circle to Meridia, the Lady of Light and the enemy of all things undead, he'd hit an unfortunate stumbling block.

He meant to eventually use the circle to cure vampirism in a much faster, simpler way than was currently possible. When one of the townsfolk was turned, he wanted to help them immediately rather than pointing them to the Glenmoril witches, only to never see them again. He never, ever again wanted to be powerless to save people as he'd been powerless to save Agni's parents.

Unfortunately, when Meridia gave the ritual circle her blessing, it had prevented any manner of undead from entering it - including vampires, which seriously hindered Falion's plans.

He was musing over which other daedra he could possibly dedicate the old shrine to when the first, towering stones appeared through the early morning mists. He approached with an air of reverence, as always. The power inlaid into those stones, even if mostly dark, was humbling.

Today, however, something was different. The old runes in the stones were clearer, more defined. There was an eerie lack of sound, now that he'd been pulled from his thoughts to recognize it. He raised his hands warily, ready to cast an ice spell at a moment's notice.

What he wasn't prepared for was the sight of a young woman in bizarre clothing, laying in a puddle of blood near the center of the circle. He cursed and hurried forward, switching his focus to call on a healing spell instead. The girl groaned when the first tendrils of magic reached her, and moved just slightly.

 _Good, she's not dead then_. "Hold still. It's just going to itch for a moment, and you'll be fine."

The girl groaned in response, letting her head drop back to the stone. He examined her while he cast his spell. She wasn't anyone from town, that much was certain. Aside from the fact that she looked to have led a very easy, comfortable life, boasting very few real scars, she also wasn't a Nord. He wasn't sure what to call her, in all honesty. She almost looked Imperial, but at the same time she was much too pale. Maybe a cross between Imperial and Breton, then.

Her clothes were like nothing he'd ever seen before, which was especially startling seeing as he'd travelled multiple planes over the course of his long life. He forced himself to focus on healing her instead - the wound on her head was much nastier than its appearance suggested. Healing it would require his undivided attention.

Focusing was more easily said than done today, however, as he caught sight of the missing Companion a ways off through the trees. He quickly averted his eyes upon realizing she wasn't wearing so much as a stitch of clothing.

He had an uncomfortable feeling that his relatively simple, manageable life was about to get much, much more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> And...there it is? I have a lot of plans for this thing. Little bit of Tamrielic vamps working differently than the ones Bella knows. Also got some characterization and backstory in there for Falion! I loved writing his perspective. Pissy grandpa mage man. I'd love to know your thoughts - even if you think I should go crawl in a landfill and stay there.


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